Viking Invasion-Chapter 65 – Tamworth

It took them less than an hour to seize Repton. Ragnar’s spirits were radiant. From the walls he gazed out across the endless plain beyond the river meadows, listening to Pascale recount the deeds of Mercia’s ancient kings—a droning lecture that lulled the gathered Norse nobles into a half-doze beneath the pale noon sun.

Their drowsiness was broken by a swelling commotion from within the town. Ragnar’s head turned toward the direction of Saint Wystan’s Church, that proud stone spire that had once marked the heart of the Mercian realm. Shouts echoed, rough and urgent, and soon a knot of towering warriors came striding up the street, their gait reckless, their faces flushed with excitement.

"Your Majesty," one of them bellowed, "you are king, aye, and none dispute your right to claim the richest share—but not to hoard all the treasure for yourself!"

Ragnar’s brows rose, the faintest flicker of amusement lighting his weathered face. "What treasure?" he asked, though he already guessed their meaning.

They meant the royal burial vault—the resting place of King Offa himself.

"That place," Ragnar said quietly, "is sacred. To disturb the sleep of the dead invites a curse. Hold your hunger a little longer. When Tamworth falls, the royal treasury will yield wealth enough for all."

But the promise of gold has never been a patient thing. Word of Offa’s tomb had spread like fire through dry thatch—the king who once ruled all Mercia, who humbled Kent and Wessex, who spoke as an equal to Charlemagne himself. His name alone carried the fragrance of power and untold treasure. Men whispered that his coffin was wrought from pure gold, that his crypt was a sea of silver coins stretching from wall to wall.

The murmuring turned to growls. "No!" a voice shouted. "When a town is taken, the spoils belong to those who fought for it! That is our law—the law of the north!"

The cry struck flint against steel. Within minutes, a thousand voices roared in agreement. The mob surged toward the church quarter, weapons flashing, their greed swelling like the tide.

From the ramparts, Ragnar’s nobles blanched; the air below quivered with menace. Pascale, pale and trembling, cried out, "Guards—hang the man who drew his sword!"

A knot of mail-clad guards pushed through the mass, encircling the first to bare his blade—a giant of a man draped in a bear’s pelt, his eyes burning with madness. He neither fled nor begged for mercy.

"Ragnar!" he thundered. "You’ve grown drunk on power. You’re no longer the hero we followed! I challenge you—to single combat!"

"Majesty, let me deal with him," said Rurik, already grasping the hilt of his sword Dragon’s Breath.

But Ragnar stayed his hand. "No need. I’m not so old that I cannot still wield a blade."

He exhaled a slow breath, unclasped his black cloak, and tossed it to Pascale. Then, from the scabbard at his side, he drew forth the sword called Kingship—a blade forged of Damascus steel, its edge gleaming with a rippling blue sheen.

A circle formed. A thousand warriors stood silent, the tension thick as smoke. Ragnar took a shield from a nearby guard, its iron rim scarred by long use, and leveled his sword toward the challenger.

"Let us be quick," he said evenly. "I have other matters waiting."

The bear-cloaked man roared and swung his sword in a brutal diagonal slash. Ragnar twisted aside, the steel singing past his cheek, then leapt backward lightly, evading the second sweep.

He studied the man’s stance—raw strength, little craft. As the berserker overextended, Ragnar darted forward and thrust, slicing a crimson line across his belly. The man howled, staggered, lifted his shield in desperate defense. Ragnar struck again. His sword punched through the wooden boss, skimmed upward, and carved a bleeding gash across the man’s brow.

Blood streamed into the berserker’s eyes. Half-blind, he swung wildly, but Kingship met each blow with effortless grace. Ragnar’s blade chipped and tore the shield apart until it hung in splinters.

Snarling, the man cast it away and gripped his sword in both hands. Ragnar mirrored him, tossing aside his own unused shield, and raised his sword high in the "roof" guard.

For half a minute they circled. Then, with a roar that shook the crowd, the berserker lunged—one great step, sword descending in a deadly arc. Ragnar’s eyes flickered, reading the motion before it finished. He moved half a pace forward, not back, twisting his wrists; Kingship’s crossguard caught the descending steel. The shriek of grinding metal ripped the air. The berserker stumbled, off balance—

—and Ragnar drove his sword through the man’s chest.

The blow was clean, final. The giant sagged, mouth open in a voiceless cry. Ragnar withdrew his blade and let the corpse fall with a thud.

"Who else?" he asked softly.

He paced the circle’s edge, Kingship dripping blood in slow crimson threads. Wherever his gaze fell, men lowered their heads, unable to meet those hard northern eyes.

"Who among you dares another try?"

No one spoke. The wind whistled through the streets. Ragnar tossed the sword to a nearby guard and strode away without looking back.

By dawn, discipline was restored. Five hundred men were left behind to secure Repton, and the main host marched east along the old Roman road. That afternoon, the banners of the Great Army came within sight of Tamworth, the royal heart of Mercia.

In Offa’s time, Tamworth had been the kingdom’s true seat of power—a fortified hill-town encircled by timber palisades and ditches, its central stronghold known as the Tamworth Burh. Two rivers, the Tame and the Anker, met beneath its walls, feeding fertile meadows and driving the great water-mill that turned day and night upon the bank.

"What a prosperous place," Ragnar murmured, drawing rein upon a low rise. From here he could see smoke rising from hundreds of hearths, hear the faint toll of bells. "Three thousand souls, at least."

Three years ago, when his throne had been less secure, Ragnar had been forced to grant Mancunium as a fief to Leonard. The gift had made Leonard nearly his equal in power, pressing hard upon the lesser jarls nearby. Ragnar would not repeat that mistake.

"Ordinary villages," he thought, "can be granted away—but not Tamworth. Not a city with walls and trade and gates of iron. This must remain in the king’s hand."

Resolved, he turned to the gathered captains to plan the siege. There were three villages outside the town’s ramparts, so Ragnar divided his army into three divisions to cut the roads and choke the city.

"Rurik," he said, "the northwest front is yours."

Rurik saluted. "As you command, my king."

He took four hundred of his own men, reinforced by Ulf’s three hundred. They occupied an abandoned hamlet west of the town. The first task was caution: to test each well for poison, to secure the barns and huts, then to dig trenches about the perimeter. 𝙛𝒓𝒆𝙚𝒘𝒆𝓫𝙣𝓸𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝒄𝒐𝓶

Three days of spade-work followed. When the trenches were done, Ulf expected that they would begin constructing siege engines—but Rurik instead ordered palisades to be raised.

"Why build defenses?" Ulf protested. "The king’s camp east of the city is raising catapults already. Leonard’s men by the river are doing the same. We should be preparing to strike."

Rurik shook his head. "The king’s eastern host numbers two thousand; Leonard commands another thousand by the south bank. Our post here is weakest—barely seven hundred men, with only sixty in full mail. We’ll hold if the garrison strikes out, not otherwise."

He was right. The main assault would come from the east; their task was to cut off the northwest road and guard the flank.

"Our strength," Rurik said, "is caution. The king chose me for this wing precisely because of it. And note—he’s not interfered with our work. That means he approves."

So the men labored through the chill of November. The sky lay low and gray, and snow drifted down in fine veils. Each dawn the Norsemen trudged into the woods, felling trees and hauling back the logs to strengthen their palisade and fashion siege tools.

Days passed. Across the frozen fields, the dark roofs of Tamworth loomed through mist. Then, one morning, a scout returned at full gallop—the enemy had stirred.

A Mercian relief force was marching from the north, their banners glimpsed between the bare trees. The siege was about to begin.